Axel Kohagen

Behind the Maps (Twins 4 Angels 2 – Game 95) Putting the Twins on a West Coast road trip is like keeping something in your glove compartment. No matter how much you swear you won’t forget this time, your mind goes blank when it counts. California time victories are nice to find between smashes of the “snooze” button on my cell phone. It’s like getting a nice letter, except no one mails anything anymore. Even the junk mail people gave up the ghost years ago. Since there’s no reason to focus on postseason pipe dreams, I keep coming back to the old saying: “If there’s a jersey on your back, you still got a chance.” It’s a game, but most of life is a game. Especially the most important parts. Any game is a chance to tune in to perfection and start some kind of magical streak. Great moments get remembered after bad seasons fade away. Even if those great moments happen half a country away, against a team who reached for the crown and fell in the moat. MauerKinder (Twins 10 Angels 3 – Game 96) No one cared about the game tonight. The Minnesotan Royal Babies were coming, and Papa Joe Mauer left on a jet plane to meet his kids at the plate. Twitter exploded in joy, then made the comparisons to the royal birth in England and exploded all over again. Mauer is tied to this region so deep it goes past DNA into the soul of the state itself. His days as kid ballplayer were already finished. Now, he’s a new father. If you’re sipping from a half-full glass, you’ll appreciate the beauty of change. See things half empty and it’s just another sign time moves too damned fast to keep up. So the game got left behind, but it still got played because that’s the whole point of everything. This game kept going so Chris Herrmann could hit his first career grand slam in extra innings. It’s the smallest moment in a losing season, and Herrmann isn’t on track to be a superstar. But the game doesn’t stop giving out great stories and moments of heroism just because the season is already over for a team. Nothing But Bathwater (Twins 0 Angels 1 – Game 97) We have MauerBabies. Twin girls with beautiful names. It’s a perfect hometown and hugs moment from the man who looks perfectly natural posing next to dairy products. Later on, former Twin Francisco Liriano turned heads by pitching an excellent game against the Nationals. If he can’t be our hero, I’m okay with him saving the day in Pittsburgh. It’s karmic. In between these events, the Twins played and lost. They turned in a bland 0-1 scorecard and the loss hit me with all the force of a bored shrug. With hope gone, baseball’s much bigger than games and scores. The race turned into a Sunday drive through the country, and suddenly the scenery matters.

No More All-Star Moments (Twins 3 Indians 2 – Game 92) This is the story of the 2013 Twins, and there’s really not a whole lot left to cover in these remaining games. True believers will hold out for a miracle, a string of victories, and playoff glory. I love all things TC, but I can’t believe in this campfire tale. If it happens, I’ll jump on the bandwagon and stand in the parade like I always belonged there. The Twins came out of the All-Star Break plucky, like nobody told them the odds. Mauer and Morneau made some late-inning magic. Perkins took the mound for a save opportunity with his fly down, which oughta be a story he tells in radio interviews into his gray-haired years. Still, the team is thirteen games under .500, so this tale is destined to end in tragedy. Doppelganger (Twins 3 Indians 2 – Game 93) Twins win again, almost exactly like they did the night before. Except Perkins kept his fly zipped. I kinda hope he left that zipper down on purpose. Could’ve started out as a bullpen dare and ended up with a box of steaks delivered to Perkins house. It’s a long shot – and clearly I have no inside information – but it’s a nice little daydream for me. If the Twins can’t win, they can at least bond. Share some emotional scars and find out what the guy they’re warming up with really has under the hood. Mischief and ritual can build trust. Maybe what I’m saying is this: We need another Kent Hrbek, and maybe a dash of Gary Gaetti. They may not be the straws that stir the drink, but they are the hands that shake up the can of beer. Maybe this could be the team that rises up out of that foam, like a phoenix from the ashes. Game of Moans (Twins 1 Indians 7 – Game 94) Around first pitch, my wife and talked about the lack of time we’d been spending with the Twins. We were taking our dog for a walk by the mighty Mississippi, and we didn’t talk much about Twins baseball. It was too beautiful a day to ruin. After getting lunch and returning home, I checked the score to find the Twins were down 6-0. I shut off the phone, shut down my give-a-damn, and continued enjoying time with my wife. I miss baseball, but I can’t submit to this reign of bad pitches and low energy. No one needs another blog post lamenting the slow death of this team. Writing dozens of posts about what’s wrong with the Twins will kill joy inside my heart. My game needs to change. There’s really no need to watch baseball games to see the Twins’ season progress. It’s time to watch the Twins’ season progress to appreciate baseball. The game remains the game. Four bases, 90 feet apart, and three strikes to get a chance to dance. Even without a World Series in a team’s sights, a two-out home run still brings glory. Every home run crosses a very real border into immortality. Real life is rarely so satisfying. It’s dismal, everyone, but there’s still baseball out there.

No More All-Star Moments (Twins 3 Indians 2 – Game 92) This is the story of the 2013 Twins, and there’s really not a whole lot left to cover in these remaining games. True believers will hold out for a miracle, a string of victories, and playoff glory. I love all things TC, but I can’t believe in this campfire tale. If it happens, I’ll jump on the bandwagon and stand in the parade like I always belonged there. The Twins came out of the All-Star Break plucky, like nobody told them the odds. Mauer and Morneau made some late-inning magic. Perkins took the mound for a save opportunity with his fly down, which oughta be a story he tells in radio interviews into his gray-haired years. Still, the team is thirteen games under .500, so this tale is destined to end in tragedy. Doppelganger (Twins 3 Indians 2 – Game 93) Twins win again, almost exactly like they did the night before. Except Perkins kept his fly zipped. I kinda hope he left that zipper down on purpose. Could’ve started out as a bullpen dare and ended up with a box of steaks delivered to Perkins house. It’s a long shot – and clearly I have no inside information – but it’s a nice little daydream for me. If the Twins can’t win, they can at least bond. Share some emotional scars and find out what the guy they’re warming up with really has under the hood. Mischief and ritual can build trust. Maybe what I’m saying is this: We need another Kent Hrbek, and maybe a dash of Gary Gaetti. They may not be the straws that stir the drink, but they are the hands that shake up the can of beer. Maybe this could be the team that rises up out of that foam, like a phoenix from the ashes. Game of Moans (Twins 1 Indians 7 – Game 94) Around first pitch, my wife and talked about the lack of time we’d been spending with the Twins. We were taking our dog for a walk by the mighty Mississippi, and we didn’t talk much about Twins baseball. It was too beautiful a day to ruin. After getting lunch and returning home, I checked the score to find the Twins were down 6-0. I shut off the phone, shut down my give-a-damn, and continued enjoying time with my wife. I miss baseball, but I can’t submit to this reign of bad pitches and low energy. No one needs another blog post lamenting the slow death of this team. Writing dozens of posts about what’s wrong with the Twins will kill joy inside my heart. My game needs to change. There’s really no need to watch baseball games to see the Twins’ season progress. It’s time to watch the Twins’ season progress to appreciate baseball. The game remains the game. Four bases, 90 feet apart, and three strikes to get a chance to dance. Even without a World Series in a team’s sights, a two-out home run still brings glory. Every home run crosses a very real border into immortality. Real life is rarely so satisfying. It’s dismal, everyone, but there’s still baseball out there.

The Twins Were Sharknados First (Twins 0 Yankees 2 - Game 89) A SyFy televion movie called Sharknado took over the world of Twitter, and I’ll bet most Twins fans didn’t put up too much of a struggle. Sharknado is a movie whose title tells you exactly what you’re going to see on your TV. The Internet Movie Database estimates it cost about a million to make. I’ll bet no one over the age of eight expected any quality from it, and yet it stole the world’s heart for a moment in time. The Twins are supposed to be Sharknados. They’re supposed to clap together the right pieces at the right time for the right price to steal the country’s attention. Exploiting opportunities and taking chances are two patron saints for both trashy movies and small-ball baseball teams. People watch Sharknado-type movies hoping they’ll be so bad they’re good. Right now, the Twins are just plain bad. Unlike drive-in classics, straight-to-video masterpieces, and basic cable must-watch TV, the Twins don’t seem to have any tricks up their sleeves. Around Twins territory, channels are changing. Three Deep in the Waste Lands (Twins 4 Yankees 1 - Game 90) I monitored this game from the time-warped world of social media and smart phones. Information isn’t updated simultaneously in this world, so sometimes my phone said the Twins were down when Twitter had something different to say. Who knows how the radio and TV feeds fit into this temporal rift. This game involved three home runs, including one from one Mr. Ryan Doumit, and a Twins victory in the Big Apple. And yet, I feel little joy. It’s like someone put together all the ingredients for a nice cheesecake and I found myself in the mood for dry crackers. Or sour grapes. It feels pretty good to write that, even if I know it’s partially a lie. The Yankees got spank-eed by the Twins in NYC. I want to stay bitter enough to be cool and detached, but I can’t help but smile a little bit. A Pleasant Sunday Thumpin’ (Twins 10 Yankees 4 – Game 91) On a pleasant Sunday, right before the All-Star break, the Minnesota Twins put a double-digit thumping on the New York Yankees. Sounds like pitching missteps and horror-show fielding played a part in the Yankees demise, but all I need to know is that the Twins won a series in New York City. For the Twins, the midseason cliffhanger isn’t “Will they or won’t they?” It’s closer to being like the tagline for The Texas Chainsaw Massacre – “Who will survive and what will be left of them?” Players will be cut from the team. Players will be shipped to other teams. Players will get injured. What it all means is this: there is less of the 2013 season to play than has already been played. Baseball is going away again. Like any good scary movie, it’ll end with the promise of a new chapter. I just hope there’s enough left of the team to cast next year’s heroes. As I finish typing this, I hear that Parmelee, Arcia, and Escobar are going to Rochester. More ballplayers down in the dust and the heat of summer.

The Twins Were Sharknados First (Twins 0 Yankees 2 - Game 89) A SyFy televion movie called Sharknado took over the world of Twitter, and I’ll bet most Twins fans didn’t put up too much of a struggle. Sharknado is a movie whose title tells you exactly what you’re going to see on your TV. The Internet Movie Database estimates it cost about a million to make. I’ll bet no one over the age of eight expected any quality from it, and yet it stole the world’s heart for a moment in time. The Twins are supposed to be Sharknados. They’re supposed to clap together the right pieces at the right time for the right price to steal the country’s attention. Exploiting opportunities and taking chances are two patron saints for both trashy movies and small-ball baseball teams. People watch Sharknado-type movies hoping they’ll be so bad they’re good. Right now, the Twins are just plain bad. Unlike drive-in classics, straight-to-video masterpieces, and basic cable must-watch TV, the Twins don’t seem to have any tricks up their sleeves. Around Twins territory, channels are changing. Three Deep in the Waste Lands (Twins 4 Yankees 1 - Game 90) I monitored this game from the time-warped world of social media and smart phones. Information isn’t updated simultaneously in this world, so sometimes my phone said the Twins were down when Twitter had something different to say. Who knows how the radio and TV feeds fit into this temporal rift. This game involved three home runs, including one from one Mr. Ryan Doumit, and a Twins victory in the Big Apple. And yet, I feel little joy. It’s like someone put together all the ingredients for a nice cheesecake and I found myself in the mood for dry crackers. Or sour grapes. It feels pretty good to write that, even if I know it’s partially a lie. The Yankees got spank-eed by the Twins in NYC. I want to stay bitter enough to be cool and detached, but I can’t help but smile a little bit. A Pleasant Sunday Thumpin’ (Twins 10 Yankees 4 – Game 91) On a pleasant Sunday, right before the All-Star break, the Minnesota Twins put a double-digit thumping on the New York Yankees. Sounds like pitching missteps and horror-show fielding played a part in the Yankees demise, but all I need to know is that the Twins won a series in New York City. For the Twins, the midseason cliffhanger isn’t “Will they or won’t they?” It’s closer to being like the tagline for The Texas Chainsaw Massacre – “Who will survive and what will be left of them?” Players will be cut from the team. Players will be shipped to other teams. Players will get injured. What it all means is this: there is less of the 2013 season to play than has already been played. Baseball is going away again. Like any good scary movie, it’ll end with the promise of a new chapter. I just hope there’s enough left of the team to cast next year’s heroes. As I finish typing this, I hear that Parmelee, Arcia, and Escobar are going to Rochester. More ballplayers down in the dust and the heat of summer.

Lots of Hits, No Crossovers (Twins 4 Rays 7 - Game 85) Crossed through the radio broadcast of the game like going over the same creek, again and again, driving down a country highway. Things were peaceful enough until I crossed paths with the game one more time to find the Twins down three runs. As I listened, a fourth Rays run crossed the plate. There was still hope when I got home. Aaron Hicks got his fourth hit of the game and then scored a run. I got home and hurried through a few chores, but I knew it didn’t matter. The text announcing the loss arrived on my phone before my body hit my favorite spot on the couch. It does ease the pain to see Hicks getting it right. He and Arcia show promise from the future. Still, I’d like for the Twins coaching staff to sit Hicks and Arcia down for the “Don’t be Danny Valencia after the 2010 season” talk. This whole team has a long way to go. What’s Blogger for “The Wave” (Twins 1 Rays 4 - Game 86) The Twins losses keep mounting, and I decided to let the team spend a day without me caring about them as punishment. I’m a rational man, but somehow I really do believe the team can feel apathy and spite through the airwaves. Just a normal, everyday craziness, I guess. A dip into the Twitter pool led me to believe lots of bloggers gave up along with me. If there was a way to bounce a beach ball from one tweet of suffering to the ext, I think lots of people would’ve kept things bouncing. All of these losses share the same lack of energy. It’s like the Twins identified some perfect exemplar of loss and have set themselves about replicating it in every game. I’ll be back tomorrow. Pouting is great, but it doesn’t make up for a world without baseball. Guess I do need this team more than they need me, even when they’re losing. Then Miss Jackson It Is (Twins 3 Rays 4 - Game 87) Didn’t realize I was lying in yesterday’s recap when I said I’d care about the Twins game tonight, but I was. Forgot it was even happening until the Internet told me. It scares me how much I wait for the Internet to keep me posted these days. Internet brought me good news with a two run Florimon homer that gave the Twins the lead. I felt no thrill. Past history has taught me a one run Twins lead had the same chances of survival as the last jelly donut at a boring meeting. So the boys in the out of town jerseys made it a two-run lead, and I thought that was something. But the Twins continued to do the same thing they’ve done for me lately and found a way to lose the game. This time, they managed to stretch the game’s death throes into extra innings. When they finally lost the game as my head hit the pillow, I don’t know if it was more or less sad. Passengers (Twins 3 Rays 4 - Game 88) There was under an inning to celebrate the Twins avoiding a no-hitter before the home runs came screaming through the air. Two of them, back to back, like an execution to end the series. What happens to all of Gardy’s commercials after the Twins let him go? I don’t know if Gardy’s going to get fired or not, but all of the fingers tapping on keypads has turned into the loud clanging of a bell tolling for the end of his tenure as Twins coach. Hard to have any feelings about that potential loss when every Twins’ loss numbs me like Novocain. Now it’s off to New York, What beatings await the team there?

Lots of Hits, No Crossovers (Twins 4 Rays 7 - Game 85) Crossed through the radio broadcast of the game like going over the same creek, again and again, driving down a country highway. Things were peaceful enough until I crossed paths with the game one more time to find the Twins down three runs. As I listened, a fourth Rays run crossed the plate. There was still hope when I got home. Aaron Hicks got his fourth hit of the game and then scored a run. I got home and hurried through a few chores, but I knew it didn’t matter. The text announcing the loss arrived on my phone before my body hit my favorite spot on the couch. It does ease the pain to see Hicks getting it right. He and Arcia show promise from the future. Still, I’d like for the Twins coaching staff to sit Hicks and Arcia down for the “Don’t be Danny Valencia after the 2010 season” talk. This whole team has a long way to go. What’s Blogger for “The Wave” (Twins 1 Rays 4 - Game 86) The Twins losses keep mounting, and I decided to let the team spend a day without me caring about them as punishment. I’m a rational man, but somehow I really do believe the team can feel apathy and spite through the airwaves. Just a normal, everyday craziness, I guess. A dip into the Twitter pool led me to believe lots of bloggers gave up along with me. If there was a way to bounce a beach ball from one tweet of suffering to the ext, I think lots of people would’ve kept things bouncing. All of these losses share the same lack of energy. It’s like the Twins identified some perfect exemplar of loss and have set themselves about replicating it in every game. I’ll be back tomorrow. Pouting is great, but it doesn’t make up for a world without baseball. Guess I do need this team more than they need me, even when they’re losing. Then Miss Jackson It Is (Twins 3 Rays 4 - Game 87) Didn’t realize I was lying in yesterday’s recap when I said I’d care about the Twins game tonight, but I was. Forgot it was even happening until the Internet told me. It scares me how much I wait for the Internet to keep me posted these days. Internet brought me good news with a two run Florimon homer that gave the Twins the lead. I felt no thrill. Past history has taught me a one run Twins lead had the same chances of survival as the last jelly donut at a boring meeting. So the boys in the out of town jerseys made it a two-run lead, and I thought that was something. But the Twins continued to do the same thing they’ve done for me lately and found a way to lose the game. This time, they managed to stretch the game’s death throes into extra innings. When they finally lost the game as my head hit the pillow, I don’t know if it was more or less sad. Passengers (Twins 3 Rays 4 - Game 88) There was under an inning to celebrate the Twins avoiding a no-hitter before the home runs came screaming through the air. Two of them, back to back, like an execution to end the series. What happens to all of Gardy’s commercials after the Twins let him go? I don’t know if Gardy’s going to get fired or not, but all of the fingers tapping on keypads has turned into the loud clanging of a bell tolling for the end of his tenure as Twins coach. Hard to have any feelings about that potential loss when every Twins’ loss numbs me like Novocain. Now it’s off to New York, What beatings await the team there?

Centre of Horrors, With an “R-E” (Twins 0 Blue Jays 4 - Game 82) After an early first pitch and late jog, my trusty phone informed me the Twins were down four to zip. Last week I might’ve had enough “never say die” to keep an eye on the game, but the Yankees took that with them back to New York. Catching the pre-game show on my drive home didn’t exactly fill me with rainbows, hopes, and dreams. The crew kept referring to Rogers Centre as a “House of Horrors” for the Twins. They always lose there, but they aren’t exactly rampaging barbarians in Seattle or New York. Or anywhere else these last few years. Kind of a League of Horrors, really. By the way, it took me a while to really understand “House of Horrors” meant something bad. Come on, what’s cooler than a house of horrors? Skulls and ghouls everywhere, with scares around every corner and a delightful mix of strobe lights and black lights? Can this be a theme night for the Twins? It’d be something to look forward to after the All-Star break. Pelfrey’s Patches Hold (Twins 6 Blue Jays 0 - Game 83) Two three run innings, adding up to a 6-0 Twins victory, made a nice Saturday afternoon even nicer. I caught part of the game on a fast food run, being careful to give the carload of teens next to me plenty of extra room. It’s only fair; with school being out, and most of them aren’t working full time. It’s their world, and if one of them has a car and a license, the rest pile in and cruise around. The destination is anywhere outside of the house. Pelfrey’s no young pup. I’m glad to see him weather his first outing for a scoreless victory. He’s a big dude trying for a comeback. Long as he can take the mound every five outings, he gets to walk onto the diamond. Diamond dust is the fountain of youth; you can get younger just listening to people playing on the radio. On the way home, I got stuck behind older drivers, but I just let it happen. According to my wife, I already drive like an old dude anyway. After all, I’ve got no reason to be out cruising with my buddies when I could be home napping on my couch after the game. The game. It’s the only thing that stays the same long enough to tie all of these generations together. There’s something holy in that. Game Over, Man (Twins 5 Blue Jays 11 - Game 84) Sticking with last game’s “I’m an old dude” theme, I’ve mostly quit with video games. They make me feel trapped, like I’m inside the console and not sitting on the couch with a controller in my hands. The computers are too good and get too mad. Also, I’m too cheap to replace busted controllers and smashed drywall. The Blue Jays’ score in today’s baseball game popped up like the score of a video game. Despite yesterday’s victory, another lopsided loss makes me wonder if the Twins ought to just swallow their pride and look for baseball’s instruction manual, or at least spend some time playing the tutorials. Games are fun as long as there’s some chance for victory within them. Winning one game out of seven suggests this game is leaving the Twins behind. There will be broken pieces to clean up, too. Every loss and scream of frustration puts the team and the fans one step closer to trades and roster moves. Each game may be a player’s last. Until they’re in the opposite dugout, spitting sunflower seeds and knocking the ball around for the bad guys.

Centre of Horrors, With an “R-E” (Twins 0 Blue Jays 4 - Game 82) After an early first pitch and late jog, my trusty phone informed me the Twins were down four to zip. Last week I might’ve had enough “never say die” to keep an eye on the game, but the Yankees took that with them back to New York. Catching the pre-game show on my drive home didn’t exactly fill me with rainbows, hopes, and dreams. The crew kept referring to Rogers Centre as a “House of Horrors” for the Twins. They always lose there, but they aren’t exactly rampaging barbarians in Seattle or New York. Or anywhere else these last few years. Kind of a League of Horrors, really. By the way, it took me a while to really understand “House of Horrors” meant something bad. Come on, what’s cooler than a house of horrors? Skulls and ghouls everywhere, with scares around every corner and a delightful mix of strobe lights and black lights? Can this be a theme night for the Twins? It’d be something to look forward to after the All-Star break. Pelfrey’s Patches Hold (Twins 6 Blue Jays 0 - Game 83) Two three run innings, adding up to a 6-0 Twins victory, made a nice Saturday afternoon even nicer. I caught part of the game on a fast food run, being careful to give the carload of teens next to me plenty of extra room. It’s only fair; with school being out, and most of them aren’t working full time. It’s their world, and if one of them has a car and a license, the rest pile in and cruise around. The destination is anywhere outside of the house. Pelfrey’s no young pup. I’m glad to see him weather his first outing for a scoreless victory. He’s a big dude trying for a comeback. Long as he can take the mound every five outings, he gets to walk onto the diamond. Diamond dust is the fountain of youth; you can get younger just listening to people playing on the radio. On the way home, I got stuck behind older drivers, but I just let it happen. According to my wife, I already drive like an old dude anyway. After all, I’ve got no reason to be out cruising with my buddies when I could be home napping on my couch after the game. The game. It’s the only thing that stays the same long enough to tie all of these generations together. There’s something holy in that. Game Over, Man (Twins 5 Blue Jays 11 - Game 84) Sticking with last game’s “I’m an old dude” theme, I’ve mostly quit with video games. They make me feel trapped, like I’m inside the console and not sitting on the couch with a controller in my hands. The computers are too good and get too mad. Also, I’m too cheap to replace busted controllers and smashed drywall. The Blue Jays’ score in today’s baseball game popped up like the score of a video game. Despite yesterday’s victory, another lopsided loss makes me wonder if the Twins ought to just swallow their pride and look for baseball’s instruction manual, or at least spend some time playing the tutorials. Games are fun as long as there’s some chance for victory within them. Winning one game out of seven suggests this game is leaving the Twins behind. There will be broken pieces to clean up, too. Every loss and scream of frustration puts the team and the fans one step closer to trades and roster moves. Each game may be a player’s last. Until they’re in the opposite dugout, spitting sunflower seeds and knocking the ball around for the bad guys.

Blink and the World Ends (Twins 4 Yankees 10 - Game 78) This was supposed to cross the finish line with the Twins in the lead. I’d decided that late last week. The Twins are struggling but still have a heartbeat. The Yankees have pains of their own. The saga’s supposed to take a turn for the Twin Cities tonight. I expected a spanking, perhaps with the Twins using a broom. The innings I caught on the radio didn’t spoil my dream, even though I did enjoy hearing Dan Gladden’s plan to walk with Cory Provus past Brett Gardener to see who was taller. Giggles. When I turned on my cell phone and saw the Yankees scored their way into the tens place, I shoved that phone into my wife’s face. Like when you point at the cat puke on the carpet because you hope someone else will deal with it. I try to remain a simple man. I believe in a world where things often average out, and someday the Yankees will lose. I try to believe, but this is the way my world ends. Not with a bang, but with those damned Yankees. Why Was I Mad at Brian Runge? (Twins 3 Yankees 7 - Game 79) Every time I checked my phone, the Twins gave up another couple runs. If you could edit together my grimacing, sour-lemon reactions to this growing defeat, it’d make for nice comedy. Believing in the Twins against the Yankees makes for tragicomedy. Sick of watching spinning porcelain and hearing flushing sounds, I scanned other baseball related news to find Brian Runge isn’t umpiring in the majors anymore. I pumped my fist, glad to see someone who spit on my beloved Twins out of the way. Then, I couldn’t remember why I passionately despised this man. It seemed like I should know why I was cheering for his decline, so I did extensive research (checked out two sites after I googled “Brian Runge” and “Minnesota Twins”). Turns out Runge called a strike after Brendan Harris called time and stepped out of the box. Ball whizzed by his head. Scary. He argued, Gardy argued, Gardy got tossed. . . I vowed to never forget. And I kinda sorta didn’t forget. If you can remember where your rage came from, your blood oath is still good, right? Even if it takes a lifeline or two? Even if the wronged player no longer plays for your team? Submissive Peeing (Twins 2 Yankees 3 - Game 80) In high school, my best friend had an adorable white dog who got so excited she piddled every time I walked in the door and scratched behind her ears. The dog was adorable, and I enjoyed watching my friend wipe up dog pee because it was his house, not mine. Such a sweet dog, even if it couldn’t handle excitement. If you put a Twins cap on that dog as it gives into stress and whizzes itself, you get a pretty good metaphor for every Twins/Yankees series this decade. When the Twins got a runner on in the ninth, I was thinking “walk-off homer” all the way. But Jason Kubel, last of the cutter slayers, wasn’t at bat and the Twins sprayed another defeat all over the linoleum. Celebrating relentless failure, my neighbors exploded hundreds of dollars of fireworks. How delightful. Another night of hoping my cowardly dog doesn’t shiver so hard the house shakes. Guess my neighbors must’ve been Twins fans who gave up on the home team celebrating independence from Yankees tyranny tomorrow. Never Mind the BBQ, This is the Pits (Twins 5 Yankees 9 - Game 81) [ATTACH=CONFIG]4696[/ATTACH] Hey, I did my part. I wore my Twins socks. Don’t blame me. Some baseball games are lost in heartbreaking moments. This was a tug of war match always headed toward a Yankees victory. Sure, the Twins pulled back a bit in the end, but the folks in the stands knew our team was going head over heels into the mudpit when the Yankees pulled them over the ninth inning. I wonder how many fans used barbecues as excuses to sneak away a few innings early. [ATTACH=CONFIG]4697[/ATTACH] We stayed the whole time, enjoying the weather and hoping for some serious Twins magic at the plate. To be fair, the Canadian Justin Morneau brought some nice fireworks to the celebration with two home runs. But with the Yankees threatening to score in the double digits, it just wasn’t enough. And just like that, the Twins lost all four games, leaving me feeling as sad dog embarrassed for hoping as I was about pounding a whole helmet of nachos and leaving cheese trails all down my stomach. [ATTACH=CONFIG]4698[/ATTACH]

All Summers are Royal Blue (Twins 3 Royals 1 - Game 74) When, in the course of baseball events, the Twins are clearly not going to make the playoffs, the Royals will play against them approximately one million times. Neither team will be playing meaningful baseball, and yet they will continue playing. I shouldn’t complain. The Twins won. Deduno wins again, too. Aaron Gleeman calls him a UFO, because people believe in his pitching prowess even though all the evidence points toward a more rational explanation. I, for one, think there’s no reason to hate on UFOS. Deduno will probably crash to earth, but until then he’s mystifying everyone and putting on Ws on the board. Legends are best when they come outta nowhere, even if they don’t last long at all. Wooden Bleachers (Twins 3 Royals 9 - Game 75) Caught this game in punchlines. There was a rain delay, then an embarrassment of Royals runs and a loss. The joke wasn’t on me, however, because I got my baseball joy from watching my 5 year-old-niece play T-ball. It’s easy to keep track of four bases when you’re grown up. When you’re a kid, the diamond has more twists and turns. At least you have extra time to navigate a path home when the other team is using all of their motor skills to get the ball from their glove to first base. I cheered loud and took pictures, and my niece was clearly the best one out there (also, my other niece was the cutest kid playing in the playground during the game). All the parents and relatives were cheering, brought together by a kid’s game to blink away infield dust and watch a ball game amid trees and Iowan plains. Reinforced (Twins 6 Royals 2 - Game 76) My 11 year wedding anniversary involved a fancy meal of buffet pizza with my nieces and our family. I was too busy to catch the score until my dad spotted it on a TV. Twins win. Kyle Gibson wins. The reinforcements are coming, Twins Territory. I can hear the bugles all the way down here in Iowa. Hicks and Arcia arrived as scouts, but Gibson’s arrival is something else. He survived injury and pitched a debut game worth bragging about. If any battlefront needed reinforcement, it was the pitching mound. If the bleeding stops on that pitching mound, we could be Break-Evening by at least next year. Maybe it’ll knock some of the Cubs shirts off of Iowans. After all, the Kernels are giving them a taste of what’s coming to Target Field. Ain’t Nothin’ Like the Real Thing (Twins 8 Royals 9 - Game 77) If you step toward a wall and travel halfway there with each step, you’ll never make it to the wall. Similarly, no matter how close communication advances get you to the game of baseball, they never quite take you all the way to the ballpark. We finished the trek home from Iowa and I took a break to look at my phone. The Twitter updates sent directly to me informed me Clete Thomas hit a home run, and then in the next sentence let me know the Twins were still losing. Then another RBI and the Twins were closing in on tying the game. At least until I checked the score again and found the Twins were losing by three. Emotions went up and down from there. Morneau and Plouffe found home runs to keep the game hopping, and then the whole shooting match ended on three strikes outs and this Royals series is done. The real loss is my streak of consecutive days without attending a Twins game. New players are coming. Old players are going to leave. I’m feeling the urge look both categories in the eyes again, even if it’s from the top of the bleachers.

All Summers are Royal Blue (Twins 3 Royals 1 - Game 74) When, in the course of baseball events, the Twins are clearly not going to make the playoffs, the Royals will play against them approximately one million times. Neither team will be playing meaningful baseball, and yet they will continue playing. I shouldn’t complain. The Twins won. Deduno wins again, too. Aaron Gleeman calls him a UFO, because people believe in his pitching prowess even though all the evidence points toward a more rational explanation. I, for one, think there’s no reason to hate on UFOS. Deduno will probably crash to earth, but until then he’s mystifying everyone and putting on Ws on the board. Legends are best when they come outta nowhere, even if they don’t last long at all. Wooden Bleachers (Twins 3 Royals 9 - Game 75) Caught this game in punchlines. There was a rain delay, then an embarrassment of Royals runs and a loss. The joke wasn’t on me, however, because I got my baseball joy from watching my 5 year-old-niece play T-ball. It’s easy to keep track of four bases when you’re grown up. When you’re a kid, the diamond has more twists and turns. At least you have extra time to navigate a path home when the other team is using all of their motor skills to get the ball from their glove to first base. I cheered loud and took pictures, and my niece was clearly the best one out there (also, my other niece was the cutest kid playing in the playground during the game). All the parents and relatives were cheering, brought together by a kid’s game to blink away infield dust and watch a ball game amid trees and Iowan plains. Reinforced (Twins 6 Royals 2 - Game 76) My 11 year wedding anniversary involved a fancy meal of buffet pizza with my nieces and our family. I was too busy to catch the score until my dad spotted it on a TV. Twins win. Kyle Gibson wins. The reinforcements are coming, Twins Territory. I can hear the bugles all the way down here in Iowa. Hicks and Arcia arrived as scouts, but Gibson’s arrival is something else. He survived injury and pitched a debut game worth bragging about. If any battlefront needed reinforcement, it was the pitching mound. If the bleeding stops on that pitching mound, we could be Break-Evening by at least next year. Maybe it’ll knock some of the Cubs shirts off of Iowans. After all, the Kernels are giving them a taste of what’s coming to Target Field. Ain’t Nothin’ Like the Real Thing (Twins 8 Royals 9 - Game 77) If you step toward a wall and travel halfway there with each step, you’ll never make it to the wall. Similarly, no matter how close communication advances get you to the game of baseball, they never quite take you all the way to the ballpark. We finished the trek home from Iowa and I took a break to look at my phone. The Twitter updates sent directly to me informed me Clete Thomas hit a home run, and then in the next sentence let me know the Twins were still losing. Then another RBI and the Twins were closing in on tying the game. At least until I checked the score again and found the Twins were losing by three. Emotions went up and down from there. Morneau and Plouffe found home runs to keep the game hopping, and then the whole shooting match ended on three strikes outs and this Royals series is done. The real loss is my streak of consecutive days without attending a Twins game. New players are coming. Old players are going to leave. I’m feeling the urge look both categories in the eyes again, even if it’s from the top of the bleachers.

Losing to Traffic AND the Marlins (Twins 2 Marlins 4 - Game 72) Began the drive home with the Twins down by two runs and an unexpected optimism they could pull this thing off. Maybe getting a phone call from my wife informing me we had power after a 91 hour drought made me sentimental. Maybe it was seeing Minnesotans looking over piles of chopped wood, proud to have survived another beating from Mother Nature. My hope didn’t die when then Twins attempts to score a run died on the basepaths, like floodwaters cresting before the top of a dam. I carried those hopes with me into the Chipotle and temporarily forget them while trying to order fast enough for the rapid-fire burrito assembly line. Ordering Chipotle during a supper rush is not for the faint of heart. I turned the key and heard Kris Atteberry’s voice. This was a potentially disastrous omen, as Atteberry is the voice of the post-game recap. He mentioned some other scores and then, false alarm, the game was back on. At least when the Twins do lose, he always finds something unique to focus his wrap-up on. He’s like a grandpa trying to cheer up a kid who just lost a scoop of ice cream to gravity. Thielbar kept his 0.00 ERA. It’s got to be good to be him right now. He beat the odds and now he’s conquering the world, holding onto that baseball like a bloody battle axe. Odds are he can’t rule that mound forever, but right now he’s king of the hill until someone changes the tune. There’s no better feeling than cheating death and inevitability. Around this time, the world’s loudest whistler blasted a serviceable rendition of “Charge!” . . . and then things got weird. The whistler kept right on whistling, until the tune went all free form jazz. From there, the whistling went mad like a hatter and he kept on tooting and shrieking away, presumably hoping someone would slap him on the back to stop the noises forever. I fear this whistler may still be whistling, in the dark, unable to stop. I think the Twins’ batters came up to the plate in the 9th, but not so anyone with an untrained eye would’ve noticed. Then, Kris Atteberry came on with a the real wrap up and I brought supper in to my wife. The Twins lost, and somehow gave up one more run than I had noticed. I had hoped for nothing. But somehow, hoping and being wrong didn’t kill me. That might be worth remembering for next time. Magically Ineffective (Twins 3 Marlins 5 - Game 73) I didn’t turn the radio on because the Twins were up by three. This makes sense, you see. Because if I listened to the Twins play out the rest of the game, I’d have to hear them ground out and fly out and strike out and poop out. Then, there’d be a home run or two and we’d lose. But if I stopped listening, the Twins would forget to choke. The game would proceed in a straight, uneventful line until the Twins win and The Most Wonderous Crown of BreakEvening was in our hands. Truly, I believed this would work. It didn’t, of course. My phone coughed and I got a text saying the Twins had breathed their last breath in Miami, where all of about four people probably witnessed it. If they’d have won that game, I would’ve been sure it was because I didn’t jinx them. Since they lost, I get to settle in for a long night of being a sucker. Awesome.

Losing to Traffic AND the Marlins (Twins 2 Marlins 4 - Game 72) Began the drive home with the Twins down by two runs and an unexpected optimism they could pull this thing off. Maybe getting a phone call from my wife informing me we had power after a 91 hour drought made me sentimental. Maybe it was seeing Minnesotans looking over piles of chopped wood, proud to have survived another beating from Mother Nature. My hope didn’t die when then Twins attempts to score a run died on the basepaths, like floodwaters cresting before the top of a dam. I carried those hopes with me into the Chipotle and temporarily forget them while trying to order fast enough for the rapid-fire burrito assembly line. Ordering Chipotle during a supper rush is not for the faint of heart. I turned the key and heard Kris Atteberry’s voice. This was a potentially disastrous omen, as Atteberry is the voice of the post-game recap. He mentioned some other scores and then, false alarm, the game was back on. At least when the Twins do lose, he always finds something unique to focus his wrap-up on. He’s like a grandpa trying to cheer up a kid who just lost a scoop of ice cream to gravity. Thielbar kept his 0.00 ERA. It’s got to be good to be him right now. He beat the odds and now he’s conquering the world, holding onto that baseball like a bloody battle axe. Odds are he can’t rule that mound forever, but right now he’s king of the hill until someone changes the tune. There’s no better feeling than cheating death and inevitability. Around this time, the world’s loudest whistler blasted a serviceable rendition of “Charge!” . . . and then things got weird. The whistler kept right on whistling, until the tune went all free form jazz. From there, the whistling went mad like a hatter and he kept on tooting and shrieking away, presumably hoping someone would slap him on the back to stop the noises forever. I fear this whistler may still be whistling, in the dark, unable to stop. I think the Twins’ batters came up to the plate in the 9th, but not so anyone with an untrained eye would’ve noticed. Then, Kris Atteberry came on with a the real wrap up and I brought supper in to my wife. The Twins lost, and somehow gave up one more run than I had noticed. I had hoped for nothing. But somehow, hoping and being wrong didn’t kill me. That might be worth remembering for next time. Magically Ineffective (Twins 3 Marlins 5 - Game 73) I didn’t turn the radio on because the Twins were up by three. This makes sense, you see. Because if I listened to the Twins play out the rest of the game, I’d have to hear them ground out and fly out and strike out and poop out. Then, there’d be a home run or two and we’d lose. But if I stopped listening, the Twins would forget to choke. The game would proceed in a straight, uneventful line until the Twins win and The Most Wonderous Crown of BreakEvening was in our hands. Truly, I believed this would work. It didn’t, of course. My phone coughed and I got a text saying the Twins had breathed their last breath in Miami, where all of about four people probably witnessed it. If they’d have won that game, I would’ve been sure it was because I didn’t jinx them. Since they lost, I get to settle in for a long night of being a sucker. Awesome.

The first thing you need to understand is the New York Yankees breed monsters. Monstrous Yankees seem to be human, but they grow to be so much more than that. They become legends, with their memory preserved in Monument Park throughout the ages. This is not necessarily an insult: monsters can be heroes, too. Take Babe Ruth. He began as a boy at an orphanage and grew into a walking appetite. His home runs shot further and further away from the batter’s box until thinking of him as a mortal might be a minor baseball blasphemy. Some monsters grow large because of a mouth that won’t quit, like Leo Durocher, Casey Stengel, and Yogi Berra. Their voices live longer than the sounds of their words, famously and infamously. Billy Martin punched his way to baseball heaven with a chip on his shoulder and a fire in his belly. He even did some of his beatings with the Minnesota Twins organization. It’s not just players that become Yankee monsters. George Steinbrenner’s ego grew so large it still lives, even after the man has passed away. Future generations will meet that ego on Saturday Night Live and Seinfeld reruns. These Yankees are much less monstrous than previous incarnations. Alex Rodriguez, perhaps the most Frankenstein-like hodge-podge of ego, scandal, and bad attitude a Yankees’ fan could dream of, is still injured. Mariano Rivera, pitching for his last year in the majors, is a supernatural force. Witnessing him close an inning is simply beautiful, even if it’s your team he’s erasing from the field batter by batter. The slow, measured way he sets himself before the pitch stops the heart. Twins heroes lack monstrosity, for better or worse. The greatest Twin of all, Harmon Killebrew, was famous for his calm demeanor and love of ice cream. A writer couldn’t invent a more likeable, relatable man. Unless, somehow, that writer created Joe Mauer. Famous for side burns, local roots, and an “aw shucks” smile, the only thing monstrous about Mauer is his ability to get on base. Even that gets overlooked by scores of booing fans, who will be the real monsters when history looks back on the Twins catcher. Hating the Yankees is great fun for Twins fans because we get to watch the local boys take on monsters from the coast. When they win, Godzilla gets driven back to the coast and the little guys won the day. Still, the children inside of us still cheer for the monsters sometime, even if that means cheering when Godzilla trashes a building or clapping when Mariano Rivera says his final goodbye to your home city.

The first thing you need to understand is the New York Yankees breed monsters. Monstrous Yankees seem to be human, but they grow to be so much more than that. They become legends, with their memory preserved in Monument Park throughout the ages. This is not necessarily an insult: monsters can be heroes, too. Take Babe Ruth. He began as a boy at an orphanage and grew into a walking appetite. His home runs shot further and further away from the batter’s box until thinking of him as a mortal might be a minor baseball blasphemy. Some monsters grow large because of a mouth that won’t quit, like Leo Durocher, Casey Stengel, and Yogi Berra. Their voices live longer than the sounds of their words, famously and infamously. Billy Martin punched his way to baseball heaven with a chip on his shoulder and a fire in his belly. He even did some of his beatings with the Minnesota Twins organization. It’s not just players that become Yankee monsters. George Steinbrenner’s ego grew so large it still lives, even after the man has passed away. Future generations will meet that ego on Saturday Night Live and Seinfeld reruns. These Yankees are much less monstrous than previous incarnations. Alex Rodriguez, perhaps the most Frankenstein-like hodge-podge of ego, scandal, and bad attitude a Yankees’ fan could dream of, is still injured. Mariano Rivera, pitching for his last year in the majors, is a supernatural force. Witnessing him close an inning is simply beautiful, even if it’s your team he’s erasing from the field batter by batter. The slow, measured way he sets himself before the pitch stops the heart. Twins heroes lack monstrosity, for better or worse. The greatest Twin of all, Harmon Killebrew, was famous for his calm demeanor and love of ice cream. A writer couldn’t invent a more likeable, relatable man. Unless, somehow, that writer created Joe Mauer. Famous for side burns, local roots, and an “aw shucks” smile, the only thing monstrous about Mauer is his ability to get on base. Even that gets overlooked by scores of booing fans, who will be the real monsters when history looks back on the Twins catcher. Hating the Yankees is great fun for Twins fans because we get to watch the local boys take on monsters from the coast. When they win, Godzilla gets driven back to the coast and the little guys won the day. Still, the children inside of us still cheer for the monsters sometime, even if that means cheering when Godzilla trashes a building or clapping when Mariano Rivera says his final goodbye to your home city.